


Buck Up, Soldier

by ShannonXL



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Awkward Boners, Erections, Humor, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the bridge, after the helicarrier, after everything, the Winter Solider has too many questions. What is his mission? Who is Bucky?</p>
<p>And what the hell is happening in his pants?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buck Up, Soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollimichele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollimichele/gifts).



> This was going to be funny, I swear. Instead it is mostly tears.

The first time it happens is in the Smithsonian. 

The Soldier is watching one of the promotional videos for Captain America. The Captain is wearing a tight uniform, impractical for combat, the shoulders are too inflexible. His expression is stern, and the Soldier thinks he’s heard this music before. He listens, watching for longer than is safe, avoiding the sights of the cameras, but he knows the way he stands would give him away if someone was paying close enough attention. He stares at the Captain for longer than he had intended, and ignores the gradual, uncomfortable tightness. It fades away soon enough. 

He steals an informational plaque about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and reads it later, huddled underneath a water tower in southeast DC, wishing that the sounds of violence weren’t comforting. He breaks off a corner of it, the image of this man, because he knows it must be important. 

* * *

 The second time, he is watching the Man, and it makes him unspeakably angry. 

The Soldier has been hiding for two months. He knows the Captain is searching for him, knows that the wreckage of HYDRA is hunting him down. He knows there are governments and agencies and threats all around him, all trying to decide if he’s still useful or better off dead. The Soldier isn’t sure himself. 

But he remembers the Captain. Mission. Friend. The Man on the bridge. He _knows_ this Man. Not the one from the videos, with the girls cheering and the warriors in his wake. He _knows_ this Man, washing a glass in the sink with gentle hands, conscious of running the tap for too long. He knows what he read, about the American Hero with the flag on his breast, and he knows what he saw. He destroyed the helicarriers, he wouldn’t fight no matter how hard he got beat up, and there’s something _there_ , and he doesn’t know what it is.

He knows what he has to do to survive.

He knows what his last mission was.

The Man, _Steve_ , he knows from the museum exhibit, steps into the hotel bathroom. It’s not a coincidence that he’s in Brooklyn. The Soldier doesn’t know what rumor led him here, but he knows what Steve is looking for. The Soldier followed him here.

The stolen placard said that the boy called James Barnes grew up here with a boy called Steve Rogers. That they were poor. That they were hungry. That they were friends, the closest friends. And then Steve grew up and became a hero. And James grew up and died. And somehow that seems wrong, like there are pieces missing from that story. Because when the Soldier thinks of a little boy called Steve, he’s scrawny, and always getting into fights, and too sick to be a soldier. But that’s not right, because the Man is Steve Rogers, and he’s strong, and big. 

And Brooklyn, too, is wrong. The Soldier doesn’t remember so many colors, so many lights. He keeps checking his GPS to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. This is the right place. There’s just something wrong with it. 

The Man comes out of the bathroom, a warm mist of steam billowing out behind him, a slender towel wrapped around his waist. The Soldier watches, tacking stock of the changes inflicted on the Man in the past fifteen minutes. His hair is wet, plastered to his neck, _it’s getting long_ , the Soldier thinks, and he doesn’t know _why_ he thinks it. There’s a fleck of soap on the Man’s shoulder, and a few stray droplets of water trickle around it, trailing down the Man’s chest, towards his navel, and _that’s_ when the Soldier begins to feel it.

It’s more than before. It doesn’t hurt, but it strains. He hears his breath rasp, and blinks, looking down. 

His pants are tight, and he’s straining against them, and this is not what he’s supposed to be doing right now. He’s supposed to be watching, because, because… reconnaissance, for the mission, for… he tries to sort it all out, trying to figure out what brought him here, but it’s all black, and he feels _hard_ , that’s the word. And why? His body is a machine, his body is a tool, pain doesn’t matter, but this doesn’t hurt, it feels-

Good?

He clenches his fists. If he’s going to kill the Man, the Captain, now would be the time. He wouldn’t see it coming. Doesn’t know the Soldier is there. He could do it right now, and then the mission would be over, and he could go back, and it would hurt but it would be black and he wouldn’t have this ache in his chest where the name Bucky keeps echoing because whoever that was before he died, he was _important_ , and the Soldier wants to know but he doesn’t want to keep hurting like this. 

He grits his teeth, looking down. It’s not gone, but the metal railing has bent and crumbled beneath his hands. There’s a light blinking on the back of his arm, the cold arm, and he knows someone is calling him. They will want to know what happened, why the mission failed, they will want to retrain him, reprogram him, and he doesn’t know why he knows this. It will be dark. And cold. His mind will go black, and he won’t know about any of this, and he doesn’t know why he knows this. He watches the Man, and the Man is watching him back.

His breath is gone. The Man doesn’t move. Not even to blink. 

His pants are tight, and the Man is looking at him and he swells, feels himself responding without thinking. This machine is betraying him, and the Man is watching and he hears the name Bucky without speaking and he grips his head and he screams.

He knows the Man is coming for him but he’s already gone. Running, flying, he doesn’t know anymore. Everything is black. He runs until he’s out of breath again. He checks his GPS. Astoria. 

It’s gone. He readjusts his pants anyway, and growls. 

* * *

 

Three more months pass, and the Soldier does research.

He finds the training camp in New Jersey, where Steve Rogers did basic training, and he examines Zola’s remains. He incapacitates the HYDRA agent that has been stalking him since Brooklyn, and learns about the serum, the vault, the ice, and the blackouts that wiped him clean. But when the Soldier asks why his body is betraying him, why the machine is malfunctioning, the agent doesn’t have an answer. He wasn’t a part of the project, all he knows is rumors, whispers of the Winter Soldier that trickled down through the ranks. Only Pierce knew, he says, and Pierce is dead. 

The Soldier wants to strangle him, but he doesn’t. He leaves him tied up and unconscious where someone sane can find him. 

He doesn’t find any more agents trailing him after that. 

He tries to train his body by himself. Hiding in an abandoned gymnasium, he lifts weights, he runs, he finds a punching bag and beats the crap out of it (and he doesn’t know why he says it like that, shouldn’t it be more technical, shouldn’t he say that he’s exhausted the equipment, he doesn’t know why he says it like he does). 

The thinks of the Man, the Captain, _Steve_. They all seem different, like they can’t all be the same person. But they all wear the same face, they all speak with the same voice. They all have an American flag engraved on their heart. 

They all have bright blue eyes and a sideways smile and a Brooklyn accent that’s outdated and warm. They all have neat blonde hair and he doesn’t know why he wants to place his trust in that face. 

He wakes up dreaming about it, and it’s there again. Hard. He doesn’t shy away from it this time. He kicks his pants off in a fury, and looks at it. And he knows now, knows what it is. It’s just his body, late at night, and it feels heavy in his hand, hot and solid. He grinds his teeth and rubs, gentle at first, but gentle isn’t enough, and his hand becomes vicious, and his hips twitch and he rolls over, grinding into the sheets, fingers clawing at the threadbare mattress. He snarls and his spine grows tense, but nothing he does can make it stop. He can’t let go. It’s coiled so tightly and he can’t make it let go. 

When he gives up, the sound he makes echoes through the gym. Because his body is betraying him. Because they made him _forget_. They made him forget Steve and the war and his language and Bucky and Brooklyn and his name and _orgasms_ , they fucking made him forget _orgasms_. Why. He screams it. Why. 

Who are these people and why is Steve his mission and who is giving the orders now and why does his cold arm hurt so much and what is his name and who the hell is Bucky. 

* * *

 

The fourth time is just ridiculous. He’s driving in a stolen car, the radio is off, and there is absolutely nothing happening. It’s like his body is making up for lost time, and he could not be more irritated by the phenomenon. 

He parks a few miles away, and walks until he reaches the Brooklyn Bridge. There’s a lock with ‘Steve + Bucky’ engraved on the back. It’s high up, somewhere too dangerous to reach, but it’s survived for years because of it. The Soldier doesn’t know why, but he thinks that a strong boy named Bucky held a frail boy named Steve on his shoulders so that they could reach this place. The perfect spot for a forever lock. 

It’s just a superstition. That love will last forever, as long as the lock stays there. But the lock isn’t gone, rust and time and human intervention have left it alone. It’s in a niche where it’s safe from the rain and the snow, and too out of the way for anyone to be bothered with. And it has ’Steve + Bucky’ engraved on the back, and when the Soldier runs his fingers across it, the shape of the handwriting looks too familiar to ignore.

It has been a year since he abandoned his mission, pulling Steve Rogers out of the water instead of letting him drown, instead of dragging him down to the bottom and leaving him there. Instead of making him die. It has been a year, and he has never looked in a mirror. He’s seen his reflection in glass windows and in the eyes of the people he’s intimidated, and he wonders what kind of trail he’s left for the Captain to follow, wonders why he hasn’t found him yet. 

He goes to Steve’s hotel. It’s empty. There’s a suitcase in the corner, and a passport in the drawer beside the bed. A laptop is charging on the desk. Glasses are drying beside the sink in the miniature hotel kitchen. There’s a spare jacket hanging inside the closet, and underneath the bed there’s a special case beneath a vibranium shield. 

The Soldier takes stock of these things, of the easy tidiness of the room. It doesn’t look familiar, but something about it _is_ , in a way he can’t describe. There’s a smell that makes him think he remembers something, even though he doesn’t. 

He finds the mirror in the bathroom. The face he sees is haggard and pale. He’s been avoiding sunlight. There’s a spot on his cheek that he’s forgotten to shave, having done so in darkness, by feel. He strokes his cheek, forgetting that his hand is cold. It startles him, seeing it touching a face that he knows by touch belongs to him. The Soldier looks up, and finds out that his eyes are blue. Beneath his sunless complexion, his skin is fair. His hair is brown. His lips are set in a hard line, but they move without his blessing, trying to form words without a voice behind them. 

He reaches into his pocket, where a jagged piece of a Smithsonian plaque has lived since he stole it. The man in the photo is almost smiling, cocky and wry. His hair is close-cropped, save for an insouciant curl draped over his forehead. He’s donned a casual shrug, and he looks healthy, if not well-fed. He looks happy.

The Soldier looks up at the mirror. He hears Steve Rogers come in, hears him realize that he’s not alone, but the Soldier can’t stop looking. He waits for Steve to find him, meets his eyes in their reflection. 

The first thing Steve says is, “Oh.” As if he hadn’t seen the Soldier all those months ago in Brooklyn, watching him from the roof. As if he hasn’t been searching, for a year. As if there aren’t a million things in the world to say, _anything_ at all that might be better than just ‘oh’.

The Soldier turns around. Steve doesn’t move. The Soldier uncurls his fist and shows him the jagged picture laying in his calloused palm. And Steve doesn’t move. The Soldier is a threat and he’s dangerous and he’s scared, and he doesn’t know why Steve doesn’t move, but he does know that Steve knows the answer. That the secrets didn’t die with Pierce.

He swallows.

“Am I-” his voice is raspy from months of not talking, from years spent only screaming. He swallows, and tries again.

And Steve doesn’t move, maybe, because Steve is waiting.

“Am I Bucky?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah. You’re Bucky.”

* * *

 

Five years later, Bucky is hard. And he is beyond pissed off. It’s inconvenient and unplanned. 

“Steve Rogers you absolute piece of shit.”

Steve laughs at him through the receiver, and Bucky resists the urge to throw the phone. 

“You could have waited until I got back. You _should_ have waited until I got back.”

Bucky grimaces.

“This is still all your fault.” He strokes himself, whining. “It’s not the _same_ without you. Can’t you come back right _now_. I’m sure those babies you’re kissing don’t put out as much as I do.”

Steve chuckles.

“Bucky that’s disgusting.”

“What are you gonna do about it, _Captain_ ,” Bucky coos. He can hear Steve licking his lips.

“Have you been _bad_ , Buck?”

Bucky grins, rolling his hips against the mattress.

“ _So_ bad.” He licks his fingers, waiting for Steve.

“And you wanna know what I’m gonna do about it?” Steve’s voice is husky.

“Tell me.” Bucky whispers.

“I think,” Steve’s voice rumbles, “I think… I’m gonna make you wait until I get back tomorrow morning.”

Bucky groans as Steve cackles.

“I might even stop for breakfast on the way.”

Steve hangs up. Bucky roars. 


End file.
